Incarnate (a new poem for the holidays)

Incarnate

They say the secret miracle of Christmas
Is Immanuel, God with us,
They say it is the Word becoming flesh
And dwelling among us.
I hear their words,
But I feel they miss the point:
We are already incarnate.
Here from the moment we stood upright,
The day we fashioned clubs,
The year we scribbled pictures onto cave walls.
God has always been with us
Because we were already here.

Some say the meaning of Christmas
Is the newborn king,
The Prince of Peace, the son given,
And yet again,
The words fail to reach
Our incarnate ears of flesh.
Lips praise peace, hands and wills abhor it,
A grand idea, but it’ll never work

In the real world of mucous and muscle.

A beautiful notion fluttering too high above the garbage
For us to attempt,
So we sing songs about it instead.

(c) 2025, Sean Taylor